These exiled poets
Lost in cloud
Nothing to do now
Except compose
Haunted verses.
A wash of ink
Smudged with mist
And tears.
The real
And the unreal
Melting away

—

On their way
To the fields
The peasants glance
Sideways
Through open windows.
The threadbare
Silks, the padded robes,
The soft hands
Of government men.
Gazing out
Painting and poetry
And wistful regret,
Awaiting the whisper
Of city assassins.

—

Here now, between
the pleasant mountains
Green and deserted,
Viewing the long mists
From picture windows.
Centrally heated,
Supplies by van
From city stores
Who satnav the lanes
And slur the
Names they dare not
Learn to pronounce
( the old language of
Rain and rock and poetry).
Somewhere beautiful
To die
If die we must.
Deserted by children
Who promised to visit
Often, who came once
A long time ago
But prefer somewhere
Where there are shops
And ready entertainments
And motorways
To speed through
Undistracted.
To be kept busy,
To not notice time
Drifting away.
We shall coffee morning,
We shall do our weekly tai chi
Our monthly bingo;
Attempt gardening
Between the showers;
Seek and find some
Contentment,
Like Manawyddan
And Pryderi,
Hunting through derelict lands,
Until that thunderous roar,
That small, relentless whisper
Changes everything
And we slip
Slip from memory,
An ink drawing
Washed away
In the endless
Rains.